


Lonely Drabbles

by kozybear



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Gilbert Blythe Needs a Hug, Implied Crush, Implied Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, Internal Monologue, John Blythe - Freeform, POV Gilbert Blythe, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, post-character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:55:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29705091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kozybear/pseuds/kozybear
Summary: Gilber Blythe got lonely at night.(An attempt at a POV concerning Gilbert's emotional state after his father dies. A brief thought process on how he decides what direction to go and what motivates him to do so.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Lonely Drabbles

—

Gilbert Blythe got lonely at night.

Sometimes it would hit him all at once, on dark, forlorn nights where there wasn't even the slightest sound of wind outside—nothing to keep him distracted from the aching gloominess that hung over his house.

_His_ house.

No longer his father's, or his family's. His mother that he never knew, and the one parent he felt akin to him was now gone to sickness. Terminal illness. The house was empty and the only soul inside of it was his. Just the thought itself made him feel cold to the touch. Enough to sometimes make him believe this house would consume him whole in a single night in which he felt too hollow to sleep.

So he walked. Often, he'd get up from bed and stretch his legs if he failed to find sleep. This, like most other nights like it, could be just as unforgiving.

He'd go to the kitchen first, the chilly and drafty room, because that was what felt most familiar during the earlier part of the day. When the sun was up and there was a piping hot pot of tea on the stove, and he could find solace in the space he and his father once shared. Where meals would be made and stomachs filled till they were just about ready to bust.

The kettle on the stove was now cold, the familiarly dark iron casting an even darker hue in the shadows of the night. The fireplace was out, and while he couldn't possibly expect it to be lit, there was a part of him that wished it were. If he sat down at the table, like he contemplated doing now, he could even pretend like he had company over. Even if it was a bit childish.

And yet, even sometimes that would prove itself to be sufficiently dreary, the lack of life in that room ever present, and he would take the right turn to his father's study. Something always led him to that room, when his father was well and he'd spend hours reading or writing in that room while Gilbert watched quietly, listening to the stories his father had to tell of the vast, exciting world he had traveled.

Of that wondrous world... He wondered if he would ever get to see much of it outside of Avonlea. He'd thought about it.

Maybe someday he would.  
 _Someday..._

But for now, he was fervently stuck in grief. And all the thoughts he could avoid during waking hours came rushing back like a beating waterfall to his mind, gallons after gallons, pounding any other thought down to numbness. He could hardly escape it, the thoughts. An ocean of indescribable grief, and he was on a tiny boat in the middle of it. He couldn't help but _feel_ utterly all alone. After all, nearly no one he knew had been going through anything quite like his situation.

Well, except for one person perhaps.

Sometimes, he liked to think about other things to wash away the pain. The kind of thoughts that could bring a potential smile to his face. A rather confusing smile. And it often brought someone to mind.

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

Her vibrant red hair the color of autumn leaves and splash of freckles always gave him a sense of puzzled intrigue when paired with that fiery spirit of hers. She was certainly confusing. He couldn't seem to wrap his head around her. But learning in class was usually distracting enough, in a good way.

Like how certain words in books he didn't know could be learned and applied to brand new situations, at least until he did know how to use them—and became stuck with his thoughts again.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't use learning as a distraction. And what a pragmatic one it was. Long hours of reading his father's classics had trained him better for the classroom. And he did have a poignant interest in words; just not quite in the same way or level of intensity as Anne did. She was wordy, what could sometimes only be called a delicately jumbled mess of descriptors arranged in some kind of symphony of structure, or perhaps lack of it.

He was articulate. But not wordy. Smart, but hardly imaginative. After all, he'd called her 'Carrots' on the first day they'd met. _Carrots._ How unoriginal.

He still thought about that day sometimes, when it crossed his mind. It was curious, really. Who would've thought that a broken slate and sore scalp would amount to anything close to an endearing memory? He would think more about that someday. He'd like to.

But for now, he couldn't.

He needed time to mend before thinking about anything as complicated as romance. He needed the space to heal, from an aching sense of loss that he truly feared would never wane. Or at least he couldn't imagine it leaving him anytime soon. Grief was one of those funny things that felt as viscous as syrup, yet was so unsweet that you couldn't think it being anything close to it.

By this point, he had scattered himself all across the house. The sun was beginning to hint at its light just over the horizon. The sky began to lighten, and the wild birds outside began to sing their cold song of early morning winter.

No time for sleeping now.

And then he had a thought. While passing the study on the way back upstairs. A map on the opposite end of the wall showing the oceans and various undocumented lands. _His father's travels..._ Maybe an ocean was just what he needed.

He continued upstairs, to grab a few belongings. Unfortunately for him, it was most of what he possessed. Some clothes, extra socks. A small sum of money. Pencils and paper. He'd never know if he needed to write someone, now would he?

And he headed down the creaky stairs filling him up with nostalgic memories of childhood, went to the pegs on the wall where his father's coat used to hang. He put on his hat and winter jacket with a specific destination in mind.

He was going to Charlottetown.


End file.
